


Pinch Me

by ohlooktheresabee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunkenness, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Jealous John Watson, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, St. Patrick's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 13:47:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30039615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohlooktheresabee/pseuds/ohlooktheresabee
Summary: Sherlock begrudgingly agrees to go with his friend John to a St. Patrick's Day celebration - but he refuses to wear something green. John thinks it's funny that Sherlock doesn't know about the tradition that no green means you get pinched - that is, until strangers start pinching the detective, who doesn't seem annoyed by it at all.In fact, he seems to be enjoying himself...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 39
Kudos: 123
Collections: St. Patrick's Day Johnlock





	Pinch Me

“Hey, remember the party tomorrow night,” John called down the stairs from his room. He was just heading to bed after a nice calm evening in 221B when he remembered that he would need to nudge his antisocial flatmate into attending. 

“I haven’t forgotten,” Sherlock called back. 

“OK, great.”

“I’m just not going.”

John rolled his eyes, padded back down the stairs. He leaned on the doorframe to the living room, where Sherlock was sitting sideways in his chair and typing on his computer. 

“Yes, you are.”

“I am what?” Sherlock didn’t even look up but kept peering into his computer screen. 

“You’re going to the party, tomorrow.”

“Why on earth would I do that?” 

“Because it’s St. Patrick’s Day, all our friends will be there, and you owe me one.”

At this, Sherlock’s eyes finally met his. His eyebrows furrowed in that way of his that John privately found adorable, and he lifted one hand to start tapping his fingers against his lips.

“You left me on the street, again, remember? We had a big row about it when I got home?” John said, a bit exasperated. 

“Oh.” Comprehension dawned, quickly followed by faint annoyance. “You said you would call in a favor - going to a party isn’t a favor.”

“Sure it is. You’ll be doing me the favor of having someone to talk to at the party.”

“But you won’t talk to me,” Sherlock groused, turning back to the screen and jabbing at the keys a bit too forcefully. “You’ll spot a pretty woman and then spend the evening chatting her up. I’ll be standing in a corner hating everyone, and everyone will be hating me. It’ll be ghastly.”

“Alright, fair,” John conceded, “I can see why you’d think that. But I promise, I’ll stick with you this time. Just give me two hours, alright? Two hours, we’ll talk, people will see us there, Greg and the rest will get off my back, and we’ll have fun. Alright? You left me on the street, _in the rain.”_

Sherlock fidgeted, then flung his head back dramatically, and sighed. 

“Two hours,” he finally said, and John grinned. “But I won’t have fun!” he called as John started heading back to his room again. 

“OK, you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” John laughed. “And remember to wear something green!”

**************************

The next evening, John waited impatiently by the front door, glancing at the time. He hadn’t seen Sherlock all day, and was half-expecting some kind of last-minute excuse as to why he couldn’t possibly attend. John was wearing a green T shirt, jeans and his green Converse trainers - he thought the last time he had worn them was probably for St. Patrick’s the previous year. 

“Sherlock? Where are you?” he called, reaching for his jacket. 

“Here,” Sherlock called, then his door banged open and he emerged, fiddling with his jacket cuffs. He was wearing his aubergine shirt and one of his suits, and when he reached around John to get his coat, John got a heady whiff of his sandalwood cologne that never failed to get his heart thumping. 

“Um…” he said, no idea where he was going to go with the sentence. 

“Hmm?” Sherlock was shrugging his coat on and looking John up and down in confusion. “I’ve never seen this outfit before,” he said, something almost accusatory in his voice. 

“Oh. Well, yeah, it’s for St. Patrick’s Day. You’ve usually gone into hiding already,” John said, recovering. “And you should be wearing something green, too.”

“I don’t own anything green,” Sherlock said, as if the very idea were ludicrous. 

“Ah - OK hang on I’ll see if I’ve got something…” John said, turning to go back to his room and starting to mentally sift through his clothes. 

“No need - I just won’t wear green,” Sherlock said, starting down the stairs to the front door. 

“Bad idea, Sherlock. We’re going to an Irish Pub on St. Patrick’s Day.” Sherlock continued on down the stairs, and John sighed, knowing there was no use arguing. 

“I’m sure they will all cope,” Sherlock said haughtily, opening the front door and holding it in place for John. 

_I’m sure they will,_ John thought to himself, a little bit evilly. He was pretty sure that Sherlock was unaware of the traditions surrounding wearing green to this celebration - and what was going to happen to him if he didn’t. _Probably best to let him work it out on his own,_ he thought, and Sherlock gave him an odd look as he started to chuckle.

*********************

When they arrived at the pub, John easily spotted their group; Greg was wearing an inflatable green shamrock hat, Molly a green dress, Donovan was wearing all black but looked to have sprayed her hair green, and Mike had on a green tie complete with flashing green LED lights. The closer they got to the table, John could hear a tinny Irish tune coming from the tie. 

“That’s hideous,” he said by greeting, laughing and clapping hands with first Mike, then Greg. To Molly he gave a quick hug, and he shook Donovan’s hand. They were never going to be good friends, but he had grown to respect the sergeant as they had all mellowed and grown a little older. Plus, the barbs exchanged between her and Sherlock had taken on a different slant when he helped save her brother from his murderous boyfriend. 

“Holmes,” she said, nodding, and John turned to see Sherlock nodding back - though his eyes were almost comically wide as he took in her green hair. “It’s not permanent, you muppet,” she laughed, correctly interpreting his alarm, and he nodded again, apparently satisfied. 

“Nice outfit John!” Molly said, raising her glass as John took off his jacket and added it to the pile of outerwear. 

“Thank you, thank you,” he said formally, taking a little bow. 

“Pfft, is that the best you could do?” Lestrade said, resetting his massive novelty hat at a jaunty angle. 

“Hey, at least it’s better than some people,” John said, nodding at Sherlock and grinning. Sherlock had just taken off his Belstaff, and their group erupted in a chorus of boos at seeing his regular clothes. 

“Where’s your green? And I warn you, if it’s the undies, we’ll still need to see them,” said Mike, clinking glasses with Donovan as she started laughing. Sherlock looked scandalized and confused, which of course only led to more laughter. John took pity on him. 

“I told you, you’re supposed to wear green - some people wear green underwear and flash people all night,” he said. Sherlock looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language. 

“I see,” he said slowly, pale eyes flickering around the crowded room. “Well, I told you - I don’t own anything green.”

John tried not to look at Greg, who was creeping up behind Sherlock. “And I told you - that was a bad idea.”

Sherlock yelped in surprise as Greg grabbed his hand and twisted the skin on the back of it, laughing like a little kid. Sherlock pulled his hand back and rubbed it, obviously shocked at this behavior. He even took a step back from the table, blinking quickly, and suddenly John didn’t find it quite so funny. 

“Alright that’s enough,” he told the table sternly, putting a hand up. Donovan grumbled a bit, but they all smiled good naturedly. Molly looked a bit concerned, but John shook his head slightly as he turned to Sherlock. 

“The tradition is that if you don’t wear green to a St. Patrick’s Day party - people will pinch you,” John explained, gesturing towards the bar. Sherlock frowned, still rubbing the back of his hand, but followed along with John. 

“People?” he asked uneasily, looking around at all the strangers in their different groups. The pub was already rowdy, and it appeared many had been there drinking for quite some time. 

“Yeah - but we’re not kids anymore and this isn’t a student pub, so you’re probably safe. Our group might try and get at you again later though,” he warned, and Sherlock looked back towards them like they might already be on the attack. John smiled, he couldn’t help it. Sherlock just looked so out of his depth - something that was quite rare indeed. Usually it was the detective who was in command of the room, who knew what was going on, who everyone looked to. In situations like this though, he tended to stick to John like glue and regard everyone else that approached them with deep suspicion. The threat of being pinched was only going to exacerbate matters. 

“You can go,” John said, feeling fond, and was gratified when Sherlock turned back to him, surprised. 

“Go?”

“You can go home,” John explained, stepping closer to the bar and raising his voice. “I’m sorry I dragged you here. You can leave, it’s OK.” He smiled to make sure Sherlock could see he was being sincere, but Sherlock only blinked in response. He looked around the pub once more, seemed to think it over, then shook his head. 

“No. You wanted me to come. I’ll stay two hours. Get me a rum and coke?” 

John’s eyebrows climbed into his hairline. 

“Really? You sure?” Sherlock nodded decisively, and John felt his smile grow larger. 

“Well alright then! One rum and coke coming up!”

****************

A few green pints later and John was howling with laughter as he listened to one of Greg’s stories from St. Patrick’s Days past.

“And then they get out of the car, all these green balloons start coming out too and floating away - one of the two is trying to catch them, and the other is screaming at me that he’s on the way to a party to propose to his girlfriend. We all ended up chasing these bloody balloons up and down the street just so this idiot could make the world’s cheesiest marriage proposal!”

Mike was banging the table by now, tears of laughter streaming down his face, and Molly didn’t seem to be doing much better. Sherlock had disappeared off to the gents, but just then John hear a commotion from behind. 

“Ooo, no green, handsome?” 

John swivelled on his seat just in time to see a scruffy stranger - with a ginger beard that clashed horribly with his green hoodie - reach out and _pinch_ Sherlock - on the _cheek!_

John’s whole table stopped laughing, and he could feel them tense up, ready to spring into action as they probably all thought the same thing; oh, _shit._ But to John’s total surprise, Sherlock looked taken aback for a moment, but then… he laughed. He laughed in a delightfully bashful way, only highlighted by his red cheek, then shrugged and gestured at himself as if to say, ‘whoops, yes, you caught me.’ It was utterly charming, astonishing - and all _wrong,_ because the recipient of that smile and look and gesture was someone who was _not John._

With one more smile at the other table, Sherlock continued back to theirs and sat in his seat. 

“You alright?” Mike asked him cautiously. 

“Hmm? Oh, yes. It was nothing, just a little pinch,” Sherlock said nonchalantly. The table relaxed, but John found himself looking at Sherlock’s empty glass and trying to remember just how many rum and cokes his friend might have had. Three? Four? As if reading his mind, Sherlock chuckled and then stood up again. 

“My round,” he said expansively, and there was a little cheer from Greg and Molly. “Anything for you, John?” 

“No thanks,” John said, feeling worried but not sure why. “And are you sure you want another one? Your two hours are almost up."

“Oh… actually, I’m rather enjoying myself, now,” Sherlock said, sounding a bit confused about it but then grinning. He was a little flushed, but didn’t appear too drunk. “I’ll stay for a bit,” he said, nudging John’s arm. “I’ll be back shortly - let’s see how many more times I can get pinched!” And then he _winked!_

He took off his suit jacket, revealing the slim-cut purple shirt that John loved so much, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. John gaped at him as he pushed his way back into the crowd. 

“How many has he had?” Molly asked, taken aback. 

“Possibly too many,” John said faintly, but then Donovan snorted. 

“Oh, leave him alone. He finally starts acting like a human being, and you’re going to get on his case about it?” She took a large swig of her own beer to finish it off, then hopped off her stool. “Let him have some fun - trust me, there are plenty of people in here who can’t _wait_ to give him a pinch.” She too then headed for the bar, and John heard her calling Sherlock’s name. 

Give him a pinch?

To John’s increasing agitation, it turned out that Donovan was right. The crowd moved, and John was able to see through to where they were both standing at the bar. Donovan appeared to be ordering a round of shots (if the tray was anything to go by), and Sherlock was talking animatedly to her about something, when a young woman in the queue darted forward and pinched him on the elbow, laughing hysterically. And Sherlock just… laughed back! Like he wasn’t upset, like it was all fine - like it was fun! As John watched, more people in the queue joined in, apparently emboldened by Sherlock being such a good sport, and Sherlock just carried on laughing. He even chatted with some of them, head at an angle - looking through his lashes - and John felt a little bit ill. 

What was Sherlock _doing?_

Donovan turned back towards them, balancing a tray of green shots in her hands, and Sherlock was out of view for a moment. When John craned around her, his stomach dropped - the same ginger guy from earlier was now leaning against the bar in her place, pinching Sherlock _again._ Sherlock tapped him on the chest in mock anger, and they both dissolved into drunken giggles. 

“Whoah there, soldier,” Greg suddenly said, grabbing John’s arm. “What’s the matter, you look like you’re going to… oh.” It seemed Greg had now also spotted what was going on by the bar. 

“Come on you two, shots!” Donovan crowed, but John couldn’t tear his eyes away. The ginger git was pinching Sherlock with both hands now - little pinches that looked like he was tickling him on the ribs through that blasted purple shirt. Sherlock’s face was red, he was twisting in place, but he was laughing - and he wasn’t leaving.

“You could go over there,” Greg suggested, speaking into John’s ear so the others couldn’t listen in. 

“And say what?” John fumed, fists clenching. 

“And say, oi, hands off my man,” Greg said, a bit of a laugh in his voice. John looked at him then, surprised, but Greg just smiled. “Don’t look like that. It’s obvious, innit? Has been for years… but if you’re not going to do anything about it, then…” he pointed back towards the bar with his shot glass, and John looked back just in time to see the ginger guy whispering something into Sherlock’s ear, hands on both his shoulders. 

John was standing up before his brain could send the command, and Greg gave him a shove towards the bar with a gleeful, “Go on, my son!”

John shouldered his way through the raucous crowd, and Sherlock immediately looked up and smiled at him as he approached. Ginger pulled away, frowning, also catching sight of John. He looked between the two of them, eyes narrowed. 

“John!” Sherlock said, sounding so genuinely pleased that John couldn’t help but smile back. “Liam here was just telling me all about St. Patrick,” he said, words slurring a little. Ginger smiled, but it was a thin smile. He was obviously not too happy to have been interrupted. 

_Good,_ thought John, trying to keep his temper in check. 

“Oh right?” John asked, taking the stranger’s measure with his eyes. He was shorter than John, but stockier in build - and he was nowhere near as drunk as Sherlock. 

“Yes, he was telling me that St. Patrick chased all the snakes away, and that the only snakes left in Ireland are the snakes that Irish men keep down their…”

“OK then,” John said, seeing red. He grabbed Sherlock by the elbow and pulled him away from the bar. 

“Hey!” Sherlock said, sounding affronted. “Don’t pull me!” 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I think it’s time for us to leave,” John said, glaring at Ginger who was now openly smirking. 

“Well we can’t, not yet,” Sherlock said, frowning. 

“Why not?” John asked, confused. Sherlock never wanted to stay at these things later than he did - that was if he even turned up at all. 

“Because of the pinches!” Sherlock said, glancing back at Ginger. The man had the audacity to make little pinching motions in the air towards them, and Sherlock laughed in response. 

“You want to stay here, to get pinched?” John asked, incredulous. The swoop of anger running through him was rapidly turning into acid, at the thought that Sherlock actually wanted the attention of all these drunken idiots, for once. 

“Well… no, not really,” Sherlock said, considering. “I s’ppose we could do it back at the flat.” 

“We could… Sherlock, what are you talking about?” 

“You, John! You haven’t pinched me yet, you’ve only pulled me,” he said, batting his eyelashes and grinning. “You’ve got to pinch me, it’s the rules.” 

John stared at him, and Sherlock waggled his eyebrows and then laughed, stumbling a little in place. 

“I’ll come back to your flat and pinch you,” Ginger leered from the bar, and John had suddenly had just about enough. 

“No thanks,” he heard himself say, stalking closer to Sherlock who regarded him with a sort of daring curiosity. He stopped directly in front of him, smelled that cologne again, then found the courage to smirk a little seductively himself. He reached one hand around Sherlock's back quickly, and before he could second-guess it, gave his bum cheek a firm pinch that had Sherlock squealing a little theatrically and hop once in place. Sherlock looked at John, shocked, but with darkening eyes and a new flush to his cheeks that was nothing to do with the alcohol. “We won’t be needing your help,” John said absently in the direction of Ginger, but he couldn’t even be bothered to see if the other man had heard. The stranger was now completely irrelevant, as those wide, intelligent and mischievous eyes zero-ed in on John’s mouth and lingered there. John could hear their friends whooping and hollering from over in the corner at their table, but could pay them no mind, as he automatically licked his lips while looking up at Sherlock’s captivating face. 

“Still… still want to stay here?” he asked, hardly able to catch his breath, he was so turned on. His skin was tingling, as Sherlock’s eyes moved from staring at his mouth, to rake up and down his body like he had just finished dinner - and John was dessert. 

“Hmm, I don’t know… are the two hours up yet?” he asked, low and sultry. Somehow, he seemed to draw even nearer to John, though his feet didn’t move. 

“They were up a while ago,” John said, leaning in - his body felt completely out of his control, and he didn’t care. 

“Ah, so does that mean that now, _you_ owe _me_ one?” Sherlock laughed, low and playful, and John felt his hands settle on his waist. 

“God, yes,” John groaned, sliding his hands up Sherlock’s chest, to the sides of his neck, and pulling him firmly down. Sherlock met him eagerly; all soft, pliant lips that smiled even as they moved against John’s. 

The shouts and catcalls increased - not just from their table but from drunken randoms as well, and John pulled away reluctantly. 

“Home?” he asked, aware of the whine in his voice as he ran his hands down Sherlock’s arms to grab his hands. Sherlock looked dazed - a little drunk, a lot happy - and John could barely wait to get him home. 

“Home,” Sherlock confirmed, and John pulled him by both hands back to their table for their coats. 

“We’re off,” he said stoutly, trying to cut off all the impending comments. He threw the Belstaff towards Sherlock then grabbed his jacket. 

“About time!” Donovan cheered, and the others all nodded, grinning. 

“Yeah if we’d have known that some drunken attention was all it took, we should have dragged you to the pub ages ago,” Mike said to Sherlock, who blushed but raised his head in his familiar haughty manner. 

“That wasn’t it,” he said cryptically, but John was already grabbing his hand again and pulling him away and out of the pub. “It wasn’t, you know,” he said emphatically as they got outside and John started looking around for a taxi. 

“Hmm?” John asked, dancing in place a little against the cold, brain already thinking about a warm bed, and a warm body in it next to his…

“It wasn’t the attention of drunkards that made me want you,” Sherlock said, clearly. John looked back at him, and realized Sherlock was not exactly as drunk as he had been looking earlier. He felt himself blushing, but went back to Sherlock and grabbed his lapels, pulling him down for another slow, heated kiss. He let his tongue move once over Sherlock’s plump lower lip before he forced himself to stop - or else they were going to be getting arrested outside a pub with their police friends sitting inside - rather embarassing. Sherlock made a displeased little noise, and John chuckled. 

“What was it, then?” he asked, pulling Sherlock to the edge of the pavement and looking up and down the street again. 

“It was when you shot the cabbie,” Sherlock said, and John looked back to him, stunned. 

“That… that was when we first met,” John said, feeling stupid. 

“Hmm, yes… well no one ever accused me of being a fast-mover in these matters,” Sherlock mused, but he was still smiling. “Though, I must admit, if you hadn't gone for the pinching thing, I was going to have to take more drastic action.” He raised one hand, and as if by magic a black cab pulled into the street and drove towards them. 

“Drastic?” John asked, pulse racing and mind slow. He couldn’t believe this was happening - but as usual, was very happy to go wherever Sherlock led. 

“Yes. _Flash people all night,_ was I believe the way you put it.” He lowered his arm as the cab stopped, then with a very naughty smile he absently adjusted the waistband of his trousers a little lower to show John a quick glimpse of something smooth, and tight, and green.

John’s knees actually wobbled as he let out another embarrassing whine, and Sherlock laughed, loud and long, as he maneuvered John into the cab - then on towards Baker Street, and to bed. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are cookies for the soul <3 Thanks for reading!


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